


The Adventure of the Solitary Chef

by claire__farron



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Post-The Final Problem, Spoilers, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-19 01:12:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9410900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claire__farron/pseuds/claire__farron
Summary: Greg tries to keep his promise.Not so much as an adventure, as it is a short drabble.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so, I haven't done this fic thing in a long, long time. This is unbeta'd/unbrit-picked, so all mistakes are my own. Also, it's too short to be an adventure, but maybe I'll add more someday. Maybe.

He’s running, frantic as the flames burn everything around him to the ground. He searches every room, trying to make sure that Sherlock and Eurus and his parents aren’t left inside. It’s so hot, the air burning his lungs with every panting breath he takes, the smoke stinging his eyes. The roar of the fire deafens him. He runs down the stairs toward the door, desperate to escape, to see if his family is outside. A loud crack echoes through the house and ceiling gives away, blocking him from the door, trapping him within the burning chaos. He can’t breathe, his lungs spasming, he can’t see, the smoke blinding him, he turns back and sees Sherlock crying at the top of the stairs -- 

Mycroft gasps awake and flails, finally managing to get himself in an upright position. His chest is heaving and his ears are ringing, and while he knows that it was just a nightmare, he can still smell smoke. Why does he still smell smoke?

His bedroom door flies open and he blinks in confusion as Greg waltzes in carrying a tray of food. “Good! You’re awake, now it’s time to eat. And don’t argue, I worked hard on this.” Greg sets the tray over Mycroft’s legs and finally looks at him. “Alright then? You’re all red.” 

Mycroft nods and takes a deep breath. “Thank you, Gregory.” He looked down on the tray and sees eggs, sausage, toast, and juice. “Where did you get all this? My kitchen was mostly empty.” 

“Yeah, we’ll talk about the state of your kitchen later. Anthea popped by with some stuff. She’s worried too, y’know.” Greg perches on the edge of the bed. “Eat.”

Mycroft bites into a triangle of toast, still trying to dissect his dream. He can feel Greg scrutinizing his every move. He clears his throat. “Gregory, is there a reason I can smell smoke?”

Greg’s cheeks flush. “Yeah uh…. So I hope you aren’t too attached to those nonstick pans…. I don’t cook very often.”

Mycroft finally looks at his scrambled eggs and sees what appears to be flecks of teflon coating. “How… how did you manage to melt the teflon onto the eg--” Mycroft is cut off by Greg pressing a soft but insistent kiss to his lips. Mycroft sighs and cards his fingers through Greg’s soft, silver hair, relaxing back into the pillows and awkwardly dragging Greg over the breakfast tray. Juice splatters onto the tray and plate, further ruining already ruined eggs and sausage. 

“You know what,” Greg says as he pulls away, “How about we just go out for breakfast, my treat?” He smiles a lopsided grin. Mycroft gives a small smile in return and nods. 

Greg carefully picks up the tray, mindful of the spilt juice, and turns to leave. “Go on and get ready. Just uh… don’t look at the kitchen on our way out, yeah?” 

Mycroft takes a long, deep breath and exhales slowly. Just as he centers himself, the smoke alarms blares and he can hear Greg string a line of curses together that would make most sailor blush.


End file.
